


A Prize Worth Sharing

by KillClaudio



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cultural Differences, Horseback Riding, M/M, Post-Canon, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26500393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillClaudio/pseuds/KillClaudio
Summary: "Hail, my lord Faramir," Éomer called, and then belied his solemn greeting by coming close and murmuring with a smile, "I have evaded both courtiers and counsellors to find you. Let us flee, for they follow fast.""A leader should set an example to his men," Faramir replied, laughing."Even a king is mortal, and needs rest. Come."
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 65
Collections: Fandom Giftbox 2020





	A Prize Worth Sharing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



Faramir saddled his horse in the soft golden sunset, murmuring quietly to the animal as he worked. There were stable boys aplenty in Edoras, but Faramir was grateful for useful work, no matter how humble. It had been sorely lacking in Gondor.

Aragorn had no need of a steward, nor a counsellor, and though in his wisdom he listened to Faramir, they were too often of one mind for Faramir to be of use. And so he had been sent to Rohan as envoy, and tarried here all the long days of summer, dreading to leave its refuge. Edoras was as bright and clean as a draught from a mountain spring: fresh paint on every home, honey-wine fermenting in barrels in every cellar, and the sweet smell of drying hay on the air.

Brightest of all was the king. Éomer had come into the full majesty of his reign, touched with a golden glow that lit the air around him. The sound of his laughter rang across Edoras and gladdened the hearts of all who heard it. He had greeted Faramir as a brother, welcoming him with the warmth and kindness that Rohan was wont to show to all. Faramir had ridden the king's horses, and shared the king's table, and stayed up with him late into the night, talking over cups of sweet wine. Little had Faramir known joy like it. He hoarded every night as a precious jewel, and might have spent the rest of his life thus in sweet contentment.

But summer was over, and Faramir must needs return to Minas Tirith.

A stable boy was leading Firefoot out into the yard when Faramir emerged. He bowed and said "If it please you, my lord, the king would ride out with you."

"If the king is pleased, then so am I," Faramir said mildly, and leaned against the sun-warmed wall to wait. 

He did not wait long. Éomer's quick, purposeful step could be heard across the courtyard, and a moment later he appeared, wearing neither helm nor mail but only a light wool tunic and an open linen shirt, his sword sheathed at his side. As though bespelled, Faramir felt his eyes dragged down to the warm hollow of Éomer's throat, and the pulse of life that beat there. 

"Hail, my lord Faramir," Éomer called, and then belied his solemn greeting by coming close and murmuring with a smile, "I have evaded both courtiers and counsellors to find you. Let us flee, for they follow fast."

"A leader should set an example to his men," Faramir replied, laughing.

"Even a king is mortal, and needs rest. Come."

Summer was gently falling from the land, and the moors blazed in purple and gold as they went flying towards the westering sun. For an hour they rode in near silence. Faramir was content to watch the evening mist settle into the valleys, and the pale reflection of the waxing moon as it shimmered in the Snowbourn. Often he glanced over at Éomer: tall and long-limbed, his flaxen braids streaming out behind him, an expression of unbearable joy on his face.

At length they came to a place where the Snowbourn slowed into a series of shallow pools. The horses drank from the clear water, cold with the bite of the White Mountains, while the two men bathed. Éomer leaped from the bank with a roar of laughter, splashing them both, and diving and turning in the pools. The sternness that had sat heavy on his brow all the long days of war was lifted, and Faramir could see traces of the carefree boy he must have once been.

As they swam, bright stars began to open up in the deep blue vault above them. "That is Fram," Éomer said, pointing to a brilliant star in the west. "He slew Scatha, the great dragon of Ered Mithrin, and brought peace and order back to the land. They say when the Dwarves tried to claim the dragon's treasure, he made a necklace of its teeth and sent it to the Dwarves as a gift."

"It is a brave man who taunts the Dwarves."

"Or a reckless one. They slew him for the insult."

Faramir pointed at four stars that traced an arc to the north. "That is the bow of Gundahar the Archer. He fought at the Battle of Fornost and, it is said, speared the leader of the Gunderbad Orcs through the eye with his arrow."

Éomer glanced over at him. "That is no tale of Gondor."

"No. Mithrandir would tell it to me, when I was a child. The lore of the far North, he said. It seemed to me then a dream kingdom peopled by legends."

Faramir had loved lore and myth, and had dogged Mithrandir's heels as he hunted through Denethor's hoarded books and scrolls. During his first week in Rohan he had asked Éomer if Meduseld had a library, and the king had laughed and clasped him by the shoulder. 

"You shall see it tonight," Éomer had said with a mysterious smile. 

After dinner the assembled company had launched into song, telling tales of the great deeds of Rohan and of the Men of the West, weaving the tale of Sauron and the War of the Ring into the whole, and thus bringing the tale of the Third Age to a close. It had taken Faramir an hour of listening and marvelling at this feat of memory before it dawned on him that this was the library Éomer had spoken of. 

Faramir had learnt, since he came to Rohan, that there was more to lore than books, and more to wisdom than learning.

Dusk deepened. They got out, and Faramir gathered wood and dried grass for the fire while Éomer spread blankets on the ground. Faramir was glad to sit in the soft, flickering light of the flames, and wallow in Éomer's company.

"How does Éowyn?" he asked.

"The Marshal of the West-mark is a fearsome warrior indeed. The tale of how the Witch-king was slain has spread throughout the land, and everywhere the Dunlendings cower before her. I have never known our borders so peaceful." Éomer smiled. "I half expect she will return with the heads of her enemies on her saddle."

"She is a fine warrior. It would have been a pity to keep her from her calling."

"I envy her. Fighting men is easier than governing them." 

"Is this the reason for our hasty flight from court?"

Éomer sighed and flopped over onto his back. "They have been arguing like fishwives all afternoon. The women and children of the Westfold must be housed while their villages are rebuilt. One half of the court favours the Westemnet, which is conveniently close. The other half favours the Wold, which has more space."

"Ah. That is simple." Faramir smiled. "Choose two of the most vocal supporters of the Westemnet and send them to investigate the advantages of the Wold. Send two supporters of the Wold to investigate the advantages of the Westemnet."

Éomer frowned. "No matter what they feel, they will be just."

"Precisely. They will be more diligent in support of their opponents' views than their own. It will be a point of honour. You will find them all returned with their minds quite changed, or at least much improved in understanding."

Éomer threw back his head and laughed. "Are these the wiles of the men of Gondor?"

"I have discovered that fairness and justice sometimes take strange forms."

"I am learning it too. Slowly. I fear I make a poor replacement for Théoden."

Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. Faramir had never envied his brother, in spite of the favour their father showed him. He would have done his duty, if he had been called to it, but he was grateful every day that Aragorn had been restored to his rightful place as king. 

"You are a fine leader. They call you 'Éadig', the blessed one who has made the land rich and fruitful again."

"If only it came from blessings indeed, instead of hard work." 

Faramir watched the carpet of stars as it multiplied above his head. "Hard work can be a blessing," he said.

"Do you lack employment?" Éomer asked with a smile. "I have been selfish, perhaps, in holding you here too long. I confess that your presence has been a balm these three months."

Faramir raised his eyebrows. "Truly? I had thought myself a guest who had long outstayed his welcome, and marvelled that Rohan's reputation as one to welcome strangers had been understated."

"We welcome strangers, but Rohan is not yet so welcoming that the king shares his table every night. I did it for the pleasure of your company."

Faramir swallowed, and his voice was hoarse when he said, "This time has been a glad one for me also. But I am not needed, and I cannot bear to be idle."

"If you wanted—" Éomer began, and stopped. "I know how highly you regard Éowyn. The West-mark needs soldiers—"

"No." Faramir hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Éowyn is made for the work. I am not."

"You won great prizes as Captain of Ithilien."

"Great prizes?" Faramir asked. "For myself, I always thought the true prize was not victory, but the peace to be found thereafter. Not the heads of your enemies, but a long and happy life doing the work you were made for. That's the true victory."

"That is a prize indeed. A prize worth sharing." Éomer bent his bright eyes on Faramir. "If you will not go to the West-mark, then stay at my side. For I am in dire need of a counsellor."

"You have a dozen," Faramir protested. 

"I need a counsellor who has no prior claim of family or obligation to sway him." Éomer smiled. "Besides, a man with your guile would make a fearsome enemy. I must claim you for Rohan."

Faramir smiled. "You grow subtle, my lord."

"I change with the seasons, as all things must."

"I am at Rohan's service."

"But it is not Rohan alone that needs you."

Faramir turned sharply. He frowned at Éomer. "You would have me as personal advisor…?"

"I see we continue to misunderstand one another. Have you not seen the true reason I wish you to stay? They say the blood of the Westernesse runs in your veins, and you see into men's hearts, as your father did."

"If my father had been able to see into men's hearts, he might have been a very different ruler. Say rather that I can see something of their minds, and their true intentions. But I have no need of it in Edoras. There is no deception in the men of the Mark."

"No. But open hearts can make much easy. I see I must be brave, instead. Faramir. There is another reason I would keep you close."

So little had Éomer used his name that Faramir started. Without thought he reached out, and his hand was clasped in Éomer's, warm and strong, still rough with calluses. 

"Yet I have feared to ask," Éomer said. "I know how dear you hold Minas Tirith."

"There are things in Edoras I hold more dear," Faramir assured him. He prayed he had not misunderstood. "There are people I hold more dear."

"And you have grown dearer to me every day, and shall grow dearer still, I suppose, if you stay longer. I wish you to stay longer. I would keep you as close as my heart."

The expression of wild daring in Éomer's eyes recalled the man who had laughed as he rode to his death. It was brave; as brave as any valiant act on the field of battle, though Éomer risked his heart and not his neck.

Faramir had no sword to lay at Éomer's feet. He knelt on the blanket, instead, and bent his head over their clasped hands. "I swear—"

He had no chance for more, for Éomer was pulling him down into a breathless kiss, desperate with love and loyalty. He cupped Faramir's jaw with a warm hand and pressed their foreheads together.

"Do not swear. I would not be your king."

"I pledge my troth, then. Éomer. Every night by the fire I have longed to touch you, and it has been a wound so sweet that every day I returned to be wounded anew."

Éomer drew him in again, and they clung together as they kissed; little more than a breath shared and a promise.

When Éomer pulled away, the hope in his eyes near broke Faramir's heart. 

"Then you will stay?"

Faramir thought of the long winter ahead of them; cold nights spent wrapped in furs before Éomer's fire, stories shared over mulled wine. And of what might put down deep roots in the quiet dark, to bloom in full when spring was come again.

"I will stay." He drew Éomer down onto the blanket, and they pressed themselves together in a warm tangle.

Éomer pointed up at a faint constellation rising in the east. "Do you know the tale of Brytta and Mildritha?"

"A tale of daring adventures and heroic rescues, I suppose?"

"No. A love story." A soft smile pulled at Éomer's lips. "Would you like to hear it?"

"I would." Faramir drew closer, and warmed himself in the fire reflected in Éomer's eyes. "Tell me."


End file.
